


Secret

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Masturbation, Mind Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deanna rudely intrudes on Worf's fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

The rain outside splatters over the roof off the shuttlecraft, creating a torrential flood of noise that just won’t let Deanna sleep. Curled on her side in one of the sleeping bags stored in the back of the shuttlecraft, she shuts her eyes tightly and attempts to clear her mind. She needs to clear it of everything, drift away from the moonlight through the aft windows and the noise of the surrounding planet. The Enterprise should be back to collect them in the morning, but if she wants to be able to make a decent report, she really needs to catch some sleep.

The rest of the landing party probably isn’t having the same trouble. She can tell Ensign Nollins and R’to’lar are asleep from the way they snore, one distinctly inhuman and the other dull and ominous. At least Worf isn’t snoring yet; she doesn’t think she could handle anymore clatter.

As Deanna’s mind drifts to Worf’s, sealed in another thick sleeping bag between her and the others, her emotions go with it. Her guards aren’t as sharp at night, less so when she’s particularly tired, and she isn’t used to sleeping so closely with others. Worf’s emotional state, as usual, is easy to access. Klingons don’t believe in stifling their emotions, and her empathetic abilities naturally open up to him—perhaps, she thinks at first, she can leach off his exhaustion and let it lull her to sleep with him.

Except that Worf isn’t exhausted, not at all. As soon as Deanna’s sensed his aura, she’s nearly drowning in it; his emotional state isn’t anything like the tired, heavy mass she expected. Instead, it’s a broiling heat of thick _lust_ so potent that Deanna nearly gasps—she shifts in her sleeping bag to bring a hand over her mouth. It’s an intimate emotion, _very_ private, and she knows she should recede; she has no business probing into Worf’s personal fantasies. But the sheer strength of his desire makes it impossible. Now that she’s sensed him, she’s trapped in that heat, and as the tingling warmth spreads through her own body, it’s hard not to _want_ to stay.

Worf might not be tired, but he’s very, very pleased. Dean resists the urge to roll over, to look at his face, watch him feign sleep when she knows what he’s really up to. But she can’t betray herself. She stays curled on her side, muffling her shock as the images roll into her: all the dirty contents of his daydream. It’s so simple, so approachable, that her mind picks up easily on all the little details. He’s thinking of them, right here, right in this shuttlecraft, but without the other two ensigns on his other side. He’s thinking of just _Deanna_ , of rolling over on top of her, of crushing her into the metal hull of the ship, of grinding hard into her and snarling his claim and biting her cheek. Deanna can practically _feel_ his teeth in her flesh. He’s imagining taking her right here. He’s thinking of covering her face and neck and shoulders in bruises, marking her irreparably, biting her hard as he grinds their bodies together. In the unrealistic fashion of dreams, their sleeping bags disappear from the occasion, and Worf tears away every shred of fabric between them, until his dark body is grinding, unhindered, into her pale one. In the fantasy, Deanna’s skin is beaded with the sweat of exertion, and in reality, she can feel that start to come true. 

She’s _hot_. Very much so. She tries to be reasonable and keep her own body in check, but she can’t bring herself to wrench her mind away, and the steam in her head soaks into the rest of her. With her eyes tightly shut, she can easily imagine the weight of him, the feel of his soft skin on hers, the roughness of his hands and the firmness of his grip. He would be _rough_. He’s fierce in the daydream, nearly violent in the way he takes her, in the way he spreads her legs around him and howls against her lips. He kisses her with a fire she can barely handle, uneven teeth and musky breath and an intoxicating _want_ that makes her shiver. He wants her so badly. In his dream, she parts her legs for him, wraps her thighs thick around his waist and softly begs him to take her. She whispers dirty things in his ear and calls him names, names that make him groan with pleasure. She can feel his massive cock pulsing against her stomach, rippled with veins and strong as a muscle. He demands that she grow wet for him, and she already is, but she’s not sure if she’ll be able to stretch enough. In the manner of dreams, she does.

Deanna moans into her hand. It’s a very real sound, shameful in its sheer presence; this is _wrong_ , she knows; she’s violating his mind. But she can’t _help_ it. She presses her thighs tightly together, rubbing herself with them, squeezing tightly around her dampening crotch while the her in Worf’s mind spreads her own folds open. One second Worf is merely rutting against her, the next he’s deep inside her body, slamming her mercilessly into the floor. Deanna screams in the dream and bites the inside of her mouth in reality. He pounds into her over and over with the wild brutality that only a Klingon could hold. In her sleeping bag, Deanna squirms and tries desperately not to make a sound; Worf, beside her, is remarkably silent, while in his mind, he roars. 

He yells at her in the daydream. Obscenities and praise, mostly, and she’s gone mad with pleasure; she’s writhing about on his cock and clutching at his broad shoulders and letting him fondle her breasts and kiss bruises into her mouth. His strength is ecstasy. Deanna squeezes around his cock and isn’t sure if he’s pictured that or if she’s done it. It’s a horrifying thought, that she might’ve penetrated his mind and participated, formed parts of the dream herself, but she can’t _stop_ , not now; she needs to be involved somehow, to do _something_ , to be active in her own pleasure. Worf simply snarls in approval; perhaps he’s too gone to notice. He’s emanating _lust_ ; he reeks of it; how can the others not smell it? How can it not sweep them away? His virility is an aphrodisiac. Both of Deanna’s hands are now tight around her mouth, nearly shaking, while her thighs squeeze around her clit, her hips humping the air as subtly and silently as she can manage. He’s so _big_ in their fantasy, fills her so good, she’s going to burst, she’s going to—

Deanna bites hard on the inside of her mouth to keep from screaming, and just like that, she’s unraveling; her body’s tensing and overheating; she goes dizzy. She’s distantly aware of how wet she’s made her uniform. She can smell her own shame. She’s panting and trembling and feels so _satisfied_ and doesn’t want to move. 

She’s lost momentary grasp of the fantasy, but when she probes back at it, it’s mostly faded; Worf’s come. In his head, at least. She has no idea if his underwear is as ruined as hers. She had no idea Klingons could masturbate either mentally or so quietly. He’s now dizzily picturing the two of them spooning, naked and sweaty and hazy as he drifts towards sleep. 

Deanna waits for him to really _be_ sleeping before she rolls over and stares at his back, plain through the darkness. ...And unbearably sexy.

She wants to roll back over. She should do that.

Instead, she sidles up as close as she can and tries to absorb his exhaustion, desperately ignoring her own follow-up daydreams where they go on a second date and fuck all over the blue-and-yellow field behind the house she had as a child.


End file.
